Back on Friday
by Tom's Mum
Summary: A sequel to Going Home and Not Coming Set at the end of Series 2 Episode


_I hadn't really intended to write this, but MillionMoments asked so nicely! I'm not terribly happy with it but it's the best I can do._

* * *

She walked casually into the bar. Catherine looked up from the glasses that she had been arranging and gave her daughter an approving glance.

"You look nice."

She shrugged indifferently, in an attempt not to betray the hour she had spent trying on every dress in her wardrobe to find the one that was exactly right.

"What this?" She twitched at the flame-coloured fabric disparagingly. "It was the first thing I saw when I opened the wardrobe."

Catherine was clearly not deceived. "Oh really? I just thought as it was Friday …"

"Is it?" As if she didn't know.

"Mm … which means that Richard will be back." There was the hint of a question in her mother's voice, which she had no intention of responding to.

"I suppose so. I had forgotten all about it." Despite all the time she had spent under cover, she really wasn't a very good liar.

"Well, I think the London flight lands at four …"

"Yeah, four thirty". She could have kicked herself for jumping in too quickly, for betraying her all too obvious interest. " … I think."

Catherine suppressed a smile. She knew perfectly well that her daughter was only feigning indifference. She had so obviously been on edge while Richard was away. He was not her favourite person in the whole world, but Catherine fervently hoped that the eccentric Inspector would be on that plane; judging by the past few days she hated to think what Camille would be like if he wasn't. She wasn't sure how far things had gone between them, but she was dead sure the relationship was more than purely professional, at least on her daughter's side. Well, who knew what went on in Richard Poole's head? The man was closer than an oyster. She relented a little and stopped her teasing.

"Do you want to go to the airport?"

Camille looked at her mother in fake astonishment and tried for an airy tone.

"Why would I?" And promptly spoiled the effect by adding " Anyway, I think the Commissioner is going to meet him."

"So you don't want to do anything special, then?" Catherine asked slyly. She was nothing if not shrewd.

Well, that was different. And it was pointless trying to hide things from maman since she quite clearly knew how matters stood. A slow smile spread over Camille's face.

* * *

So here she was, sitting in the bar with Dwayne and Fidel behind a hastily improvised Welcome Home banner, a stray bit of bunting and a couple of desultory balloons. Why she was even here, she wasn't sure. During his absence she had veered from total conviction that he wouldn't be coming back – a conviction bolstered by Dwayne, who was sure the Chief would be seduced into staying by fish and chips and a pint in the pub – to trust that he was a man of his word and would return as promised, which was Fidel's standpoint. Just at the moment she was in a 'probably unlikely' phase. But she was here because despite everything, despite all the indicators that pointed to the contrary, she could not stop hoping that he would be on that plane.

Her anxiety was patent. Dwayne and Fidel had spent the past hour trying unsuccessfully to calm her down. The waiting was unbearable, the not knowing. If she knew for certain that he wasn't coming back she could cope with it, she told herself. She had got quite good at self-deception. But staring at his empty desk all week, wondering if he would ever occupy it again, had done nothing for her. She had snapped at everyone, even Dwayne and Fidel, which was really quite unfair as they had done nothing to deserve it. She was furious with herself for being so weak and stupid – and for letting it show.

It was not as if there was likely to be any future for her even if he did come back. For all she knew he would be glad to be rid of her – after all, she had spent so much time arguing with him, being angry with him, pointing out his many faults, that she could hardly be surprised if he took the first opportunity to bolt. But then there had been other times, times when he had been kind and understanding, times when he had opened up to her as she suspected he never had with anyone else, times when she had thought that perhaps, just perhaps, he regarded her as something more than just an irritating colleague. He was unfathomable – a man of such apparent contradictions. In the toast she had made after his departure she had called him annoying, childish and pedantic. She could have added grumpy, stubborn, demanding and any number of other epithets. It was easy to list his faults, not so easy to see beyond the brittle persona he had adopted to hide his lack of confidence, his insecurity, his vulnerability. She had also called him funny and brilliant, and that was indisputable, though it had taken her a while to appreciate his particular sardonic brand of humour. It was hard to think she might never witness his caustic wit again.

The clock ticked slowly onwards. It felt as if they had been sitting there for an age. She tried to control her breathing, which was becoming increasingly rapid.

"What time is it?" she asked Dwayne for the umpteenth time.

"Quarter to six."

She did some quick calculations. "So, the flight lands at half past four, get cases by, what, five?"

"More or less."

"Into the car, Friday evening traffic, should be here by …?"

"Quarter to six." Dwayne spoke patiently, though he was actually quite amused. He had seen Camille in many moods, but never this wound up. Who would have thought the Chief would have such a palpable effect on her? He just hoped she wasn't going to be disappointed.

Fidel put a reassuring hand on her arm. "He'll be here, don't worry." He had total faith in the Inspector, even if no-one else did.

Dwayne groaned inwardly and took another swig from his bottle. He was far from sure. He just wanted to know, one way or the other. "The suspense is killing me."

There was a flurry of movement. Catherine looked out of the window.

The Commissioner's car had arrived.

They sat in silence, waiting. Camille had to keep reminding herself to breathe. Suddenly the imposing figure of Selwyn Patterson appeared in the doorway. They looked beyond him but saw only empty space. Consternation was written wide on every face, even Dwayne's.

"Good evening, team." The Commissioner was his usual suave, polite self.

They stared at him for a few seconds, trying to take in the fact that he appeared to be alone. Fidel was the first to crack. A note of desperation crept into his voice.

"He was on the flight, right?"

"Ah, bit of a problem on that front." The Commissioner looked down, as if loth to be the bearer of bad tidings.

Well, that's it, thought Camille, I was right all along. I knew he wouldn't come back. I was a fool to even think he might. Although she had been expecting it, she was surprised by how much it hurt - like a physical ache. Suddenly all she wanted was to run away, to be by herself, so no-one could witness the tears that were pricking at her lids and would surely fall before much longer. Just as she was reaching for her bag, however, there was an eruption into the room.

"Too right there's a problem. They lost my luggage – again!"

She couldn't believe it. She just couldn't believe it. He was actually here, in the room. He had come back after all! In her shock she stood up, staring at him open-mouthed as he embarked on one of his rants. She didn't care. She didn't care at all. He could rant all night if he wanted to. It was music to her ears.

He continued to expostulate, his voice all the time rising and getting louder. Camille and Fidel exchanged knowing smiles, both so happy to see him back that they would forgive him anything that night. "That's two flights I've made to this benighted island and both times they've lost my luggage. It's like they've got some kind of twisted vendetta against me. I mean, what's the point of having a luggage carousel _if there's never anything on it_, hm? Maybe they should turn it into something else, you know, like a revolving fruit and vegetable display or a children's ride? They call it paradise but they've got a very funny idea of what paradise is if it includes walking around in 100 degree heat in the same pants for a fortnight!"

Dwayne leant back in his chair and raised his bottle in a toast, a resigned smile on his face. Business as usual. "Welcome home, Chief!" Fidel echoed his gesture.

As for Camille, she was lost for words. There were so many things she wanted to say but this was not the time or the place. She settled for "It's good to have you back." The rest could wait.

* * *

Richard stayed for about an hour, drinking a couple of beers and trying his best to hide his tiredness. They plied him eagerly with questions: about the prisoner, about SOCA, about the weather in London, the food, the beer. In return they told him what had been happening on the island in his absence, which was not very much apart from a flock of goats which had got loose and caused havoc in the market. It had apparently taken half the population of Honoré to round them up before order could finally be restored.

"It was great fun, though, Chief" Dwayne added.

He knew it behoved him to point out that it was not the function of police officers to have fun but couldn't quite bring himself to do it, so made do with a little disapproving grunt instead. He was conscious of a feeling of something very close to disappointment at having missed the excitement and tried unsuccessfully to imagine something similar happening on Croydon High Street. Christ, he must be seriously tired!

He was truly touched by the little reception they had organised for him, which was of course a totally new experience for someone who had spent the better part of his life as virtually a social pariah. It was incredible but they seemed genuinely pleased to see him. Though he did not mention it, he had not failed to notice the banner, the bunting and the balloons and once more he had to fight down the emotion that was swelling inside him.

The decision to come back had been a no-brainer, really – made the minute he had left. He told himself he was merely completing his posting. The fact that his posting involved an exotic and bewitching woman who had hugged and kissed him on his departure had nothing to do with it. Well, not very much.

It was not that he hadn't enjoyed being in London again. It was wonderful to feel cold without having to stand in front of an open freezer. And everything worked: the trains arrived (more or less) on time, the internet signal was strong, the central heating (oh, the joy of needing central heating!) was efficient, the supermarkets stocked everything – even mangos and sweet potatoes, to which he had become strangely addicted. And as for SOCA, well! A huge team, all effortlessly networking and supported by all the resources you could wish for. A little voice whispered in his ear that it might be efficient but it was actually quite dull – much more interesting to carry out his own forensic investigations in the kitchen at home.

Home! Did he really consider the dilapidated shack with its primitive facilities as home? Once the people at SOCA had finished with him he took the train down to Croydon, to check up on his old house, which was now rented out. He walked briskly along the main road, noting with disapproval how dirty and noisy the streets seemed. Perhaps the Council was cutting down – even in the Caribbean he had heard about the budget cuts. He turned into his road: rows of Victorian terraced houses on each side. It was exactly as he had left it but somehow it seemed so grey, so drained of colour – each house exactly like every other one. Once, the neatness and order would have filled him with satisfaction, but now he found it difficult to imagine living here again. He stood outside his own house trying to work up enough enthusiasm to knock on the door. Eventually he turned and made his way back to the station. He didn't even think about visiting the White Hart.

Richard was suddenly conscious of four pairs of eyes looking at him questioningly.

"Chief?" said Dwayne, "are you OK? You seemed to drift off a bit there …"

With an effort he pulled himself together. "Yes, fine, erm, sorry, you know, a bit tired."

Camille was all concern. "You must be jet-lagged. We mustn't keep you talking any longer. Come on, I'll drive you home." And before he knew it he was sitting in the Defender as Camille expertly steered round the many ruts and potholes that were such a feature of roads on the island. If his mind fleetingly longed for the comfort and smoothness of the A23, the thought was instantly dismissed.

"Here we are", she said, jumping down. "I put a few provisions in your fridge this morning so you should be OK until you can do some shopping."

"Thanks. But you shouldn't have bothered." He unlocked the door looked round the shack, mentally comparing it to the modern and well equipped hotel room where he had been living for the past week, and admitted to himself with a rare rush of honesty that, despite its obvious and manifold failings, he wouldn't change it. Somehow it had become part of him – it was home now.

The sound of a dying engine was followed by a knock at the door. A rather nervous-looking airport employee pushed his missing suitcase towards him. "Er, we're very sorry, Inspector, but it appears that your case was wrongly sorted on arrival from Heathrow. It wasn't lost, just mislaid and we have now found it. As you seemed so …" he was clearly searching for an appropriate word "…so, er, _upset_, we thought we had better deliver it to you right away."

"Oh, um, right."

Camille stepped in quickly. "The Inspector is most grateful to you for taking the trouble to deliver the case personally."

"Yes, er, most grateful" he muttered, offering the man a tip in obedience to Camille's nudge and significant look.

"Well, at least I can now have a decent cup of tea" he said when the man had gone. "I packed some fresh milk!" He threw open the suitcase and Camille was amazed to find it was half-full of food items.

"Well, there didn't seem to be much point in bringing back all my thick jumpers – I'm hardly going to need them on the island", he explained rather defensively, unpacking a selection of jelly babies, jammy dodgers, rich tea and digestive biscuits, several bars of Cadbury's chocolate and a big jar of Marmite. He sniffed the milk carefully. "It hasn't gone off yet. Wonderful! Though it won't last long in this climate. I'll put the kettle on."

"And I'll feed Harry, and then I'll leave you to catch up on some sleep."

"Has he been OK?"

"Harry? Yes, fine. Though I'm sorry to say he didn't seem to miss you – just as long as he got his mango-and-bugs!"

"And what about you – did _you_ miss me?" He couldn't believe he actually said that. It must be the tiredness talking.

Her heart started to thump uncomfortably. "Yes of course we did. The office seemed empty. But fortunately there weren't any murders so we didn't need your super-brain."

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh. Well, yes, I missed having someone to argue with. And … and … well, you're still the most annoying man I've ever met – sometimes – but I suppose I've got used to having you around. Your desk looked very sad and empty without you. To be honest, I didn't think you'd come back."

"I told you I would. It's my job, apart from anything else."

"Yes." She smiled. "And I'm glad you did. For whatever reason."

"Oh, here, I've got something for you", and he rummaged around in his briefcase, pulling out a paper bag and handing it to her. She opened it and looked at him with a puzzled frown.

"It's a stick of rock", he explained "a typically English form of confectionery. Used to be very popular when I was growing up, you know- sold at all the seaside towns. You don't see so much of it now – probably because it's so bad for your teeth."

She looked bewildered, so he continued.

"It's made of granulated sugar and glucose syrup, boiled to death with added peppermint and then set hard like, well, rock. It's quite lethal, I wouldn't eat it if I were you. Look, you can see the name – it goes right through the whole stick to the other end."

She screwed up her eyes and read: Clacton-on-Sea.

"Clacton! Isn't that where you used to go on holiday?"

"Yes. You see, I haven't forgotten I promised you a weekend in a caravan if you ever come to England. But until then, this will have to do."

She smiled happily and reached up to give him another kiss on the cheek.

"Thank you."

I could get used to this, he thought.

"Now where's that cup of tea?"


End file.
